


theme & variations

by moobloom



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, In a funny way, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, george is annoying but like, no knowledge of classical music necessary to read, they're in a conservatory in this one lads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26940886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moobloom/pseuds/moobloom
Summary: "We," Dream says, leaning against the practice room's doorframe, "have to stop meeting like this.""Shut the fuck up," George says. "I hate you. Why are you even here."OR: Dream plays the violin, argues with George, and thinks about decking a child.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 222
Kudos: 973





	1. concerto in a minor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For M.
> 
> This has been in the works for a while now, and thank god you have more patience than I do. Thank you for being my listening ear and also the trash can where I dump all my ideas. I love you. Talk to you soon. 
> 
> An incomplete list of pieces mentioned in this chapter:  
> \- Scherhazade by Rimsky-Korsakov  
> \- 24 Caprices by Paganini  
> \- Chaconne by Bach

There is someone in Dream’s practice room. He can hear them tuning even from outside. 

There _shouldn’t_ be anyone in the practice room because he’d actually gone through all the official channels this time to claim it—had even had an extended argument with George about it, much to everyone in the email chain’s chagrin. He’d even gone to the sign-up sheet a week before and put his name down, clear as anything: practice room #2, four to six PM, _Dream_ , with a smiley face appended on the end.

And yet. 

Dream tightens his grip on his violin case and pulls open the door. 

The practice room isn’t large by any measure of the word—Dream can cross it easily in a few paces—but he doesn’t spot his thief at first glance either. It takes another moment of searching before he sees a shift in movement as someone straightens from where they were bent over behind the grand piano. 

The thief clears his throat and says, in a distinctly familiar voice, “Can I help you?” 

“Yes,” Dream says and knows when George realizes it too because he turns so fast Dream can hear his _bones_ crack. “Listen,” he continues distastefully (and maybe with a little more temper than he’s really proud of), “I know you’re pretty much illiterate, but I actually have the room reserved right now. It says so on the sign-up sheet.” The _so there_ at the end of his sentence goes unsaid. 

“You listen,” George retorts, and stops—probably because he can’t argue with the absolute authority of the sign-up sheet. And then, childishly: “I can read.” 

Dream scoffs. “No, you can’t.” 

“I send out your emails.” The corner of George’s mouth curls down in clear distaste.

“You could be, I don’t know, dictating them or—look,” Dream says, a little impatiently. “The point is—the point is that I have this room booked for two hours, and I _do not plan_ on sharing.” 

“Sharing is caring,” George says snidely, and props his violin back onto his chin. 

Dream carefully sets his violin case on the ground. Very seriously: “George, put your violin away.” 

George lifts an eyebrow. “Why should I?” 

“I am about to throw hands with you,” Dream says, still pleasantly, “and I am strictly against violin violence.”

“I am strictly against you being in my presence,” George mutters and sets his bow on his strings. He pulls it across his open strings once, back and forth—downbow, upbow—and then launches into a piece, something fast and narrow and perfectly controlled. Mendelssohn, Dream recalls hazily. Part of their repertoire for an upcoming concert. 

It’s a provocation, clear and simple. Dream knows he doesn’t have that one done perfectly and _George_ knows that he doesn’t have that one done the way a concertmaster should. It’s part of the reason why Dream had booked the practice room in the first place. 

Dream raises his voice. “Are you _done?_ ”

George takes his violin off his shoulder. Snatches his music off the stand and dumps it in his tote bag. “See you at rehearsal, Dream.” 

“ _Good riddance_ ,” Dream says loudly as George marches out the door. Still, there’s no more argument so he picks up his case and rounds the grand piano to begin setting up. 

It’s as he’s unpacking his violin that he looks up at the still-open practice room door and sees it: _Practice #1_ , faded gold-leaf lettering on a black plaque. Underneath that, the posted sign-up sheet for the room that says, bold as day, 4 PM - 7 PM. _George._

  
  


&

From: _georgenotfound@mconservatory.edu_

To: _dreamwastaken@mconservatory.edu, sapnap@mconservatory.edu, +15 others_

RE: Winter Festival Repertoire - Rehearsal Notes & Recap 

Hi first violins, 

Here’s the rehearsal recap for this week! Please let me know ASAP if I’ve forgotten anything, or you need anything clarified. A couple of you have asked for Dream’s fingerings for the Rimsky-Korsakov, so I’ve attached his sheet music. Just an FYI: he steals all his annotations from me. No cap. 

Also, this is your reminder that the deadline to enter our very fun very exciting annual solo competition is next week! Sign-up sheets are in room 248. Remember, the winner gets to play their solo in one of our very cool concerts. Orchestra accompaniment optional. 

Finally, speaking of Rimsky-Korsakov and solos: please stop yelling “POG” during Dream’s. 

As always, direct all complaints to Professor Min. I’m just the messenger. Tell Dream he’s a loser when you see him in the hallways. Etc.

\- George

_rehearsal notes.pdf_

_scheherezade fingerings.jpeg_

  
  


From: _sapnap@mconservatory.edu_

To: _georgenotfound@mconservatory.edu, dreamwastaken@mconservatory.edu, +15 others_

RE: RE: Winter Festival Repertoire - Rehearsal Notes & Recap

haha dream drew crocodiles on his crescendos. 

  
  


From: _dreamwastaken@mconservatory.edu_

To: _sapnap@mconservatory.edu, georgenotfound@mconservatory.edu, +15 others_

RE: RE: RE: Winter Festival Repertoire - Rehearsal Notes & Recap

Hi Sapnap, 

#1: If for once in your life, you would look at first desk during rehearsal, you would notice that George chooses to pursue a career in the fine arts instead of paying attention. Hence, the crocodile. 

#2: If you stole my fucking rosin again, I will gut you like a fish. 

Love, 

Dream

_Concertmaster_

_M. Conservatory Orchestra_

_dreamwastaken@mconservatory.edu_

&

Dream has barely sat down when George shuffles into the seat next to him and begins methodically setting up. 

As George is wrestling his shoulder rest on, Dream purses his lips and says, “So.” 

“So,” George agrees. He lifts an expectant eyebrow. 

It’s so haughty that it physically pains Dream to continue. But he does. Because he’s not a coward and _certainly_ , he’s better than George. He says, “I took your practice room.” 

“You did,” George says, nodding. “That _is_ correct. You also called me illiterate which is—” he shrugs, only getting smugger by the minute, “—ironic.” 

Dream smiles as politely as he can—which, of course, translates to smiling _very rudely_ —and turns back to flipping through his music. “Great,” he says, not wanting to give George the satisfaction of an apology. “That’s great. I’m glad we got that sorted.” 

“ _Great_ ,” George parrots, the smug smile dropping a fraction to make room for astonishment. “Is that it?” 

“Mm.” Dream thumbs the corner-crease of one of the pages. “Great.” 

“Great,” Sapnap interjects before George can say anything. There’s something unidentifiable—disbelief, maybe?—dripping heavy from his voice. “Dream, can I have your bowings for the Stravinsky? I lost my sheet music.” 

George says, incredulously, “How did you lose your _sheet music?”_

“My dog ate it,” Sapnap deadpans. “Anyway, it’s not like Dream can say no. He’s the concertmaster.” 

“George is assistant principal but you never ask _him_ ,” Dream says. 

“George is already your secretary,” Sapnap says and George says, “True! Listen to him Dream, he’s right.” 

“Shut up,” Sapnap tells him. “This doesn’t mean you deserve rights. Dream, give me your Stravinsky.” 

“I feel kind of like I’m being held at gunpoint here,” Dream mutters, but pulls it out of his folder and hands it over. “If you lose this I’m going to punt you into rush hour traffic.”

Sapnap says, loftily, “Is that a challenge?” 

“Is that a—no!” Dream shoves at Sapnap. “Go copy your bowings, loser. Better hope Min doesn’t notice you haven’t practiced.” 

Sapnap makes a face, but circles obligingly back to his seat which is, undramatically, right behind Dream’s. 

George plucks his G-string once, and then presses his thumb down on it to stop the reverb. “So,” he says, and even though he’s not looking at anything in particular, Dream knows he’s talking to him. “The practice room.” 

“Right,” Dream nods. “I took your practice room.” 

“And called me illiterate.” 

“And called you illiterate,” Dream agrees. “However— _however_ , I _did_ actually have a practice room booked—”

“I _know_ ,” George interjects, “seeing as I can actually _read_ —”

“—so really, we stole each _other’s_ practice rooms,” Dream finishes. 

George stares at him, dumbfounded. Disbelievingly: “You—” 

“Me,” Dream agrees pleasantly. George makes a low, aggravated sound in the back of his throat at being interrupted. It’s almost funny, how riled up he can get. 

“ _I_ ,” George says, glaring daggers at Dream, “Had the practice room booked for another _hour_. You know how much I can practice in sixty minutes?”  
  


“Not much,” Dream says mildly. It’s not true, but George looks about two words from shanking him. Still, Dream forges onwards, suddenly feeling much more cheerful than before. “Anyway, you gave up your practice room. You could’ve _told_ me. You know I would’ve vacated.” Before George can reply, slyly: “You just wanted to use this against me.” 

George’s fingers twitch around his fingerboard and then flex, like he’s imagining strangling Dream with his bare hands. Dream, of course, recognizes the murderous intent flitting across his face and keeps smiling his Customer Service smile, more to aggravate George than anything.

After a long pause: 

“You were still being completely illiterate,” George says, haughtily. At Dream’s continued smile: “I am going to _kill_ you.” 

&

George is not going to kill him. Dream is one hundred percent sure that he can take George in a fight. Actually, there are very few people Dream probably can’t take in a fight. Off the top of his head: the concertmaster from their rival conservatory. His mom. Niccolo Paginini’s infamously difficult _24 Caprices_. The last of which being particularly relevant because, well: solo competition. 

This, of course, does not stop Dream from trying. 

“I’m going to _die_ ,” he shouts, and kicks his flimsy wire stand. It falls with a loud clatter. His sheet music goes everywhere. 

Sapnap, who graciously agreed to be his roommate back when Dream had been looking for affordable off-campus living, not-so-graciously snorts. “Dude, you signed up for this.” 

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Dream chants. He puts his violin on his desk and goes to reset his stand. The pads of his fingers are red and sore despite his callouses, and he would _really_ like to break Paginini out of whatever cold, hard earth he was buried in and _break all of his bones_. 

Sapnap, having chosen an easier piece for his entry in the extracurricular competition, doesn’t bother to look up from his phone. “Look man,” he says. “All I’m saying is that the only people who play Paginini are either geniuses or have too much hubris.” 

“ _I’m_ a genius,” Dream says. 

“Mm,” Sapnap agrees. 

“I am!” Dream scoops a page of his sheet music up from under his bed. When Sapnap doesn’t say anything: “Anyway, you know I had to one-up _George_.” 

“Because he won last year.”

“Right.” 

“Right,” Sapnap says. After a pause: “Didn’t you win the year before that?” 

“It doesn’t count,” Dream says, as if it should be obvious. “Two years is nothing. I don’t even remember if George was even _here_ two years ago.” 

“He’s been here longer than you,” Sapnap says correctly, to which Dream ignores entirely in favor of going back to losing his war against Paginini’s Caprices. 

&

Dream goes back to the practice room. He double checks his room beforehand, and then, on the stairwell, checks again. 

Practice Room #2, _Dream_ , 12PM - 2PM. Clear as day. He won’t make the mistake again. 

Unfortunately, the choice isn’t his to make.

He steps into the hallway where all the practice rooms are lined up, and sees it immediately: crude, paper signs taped to the walls and doors at uneven intervals. The words on the first sign are written in a hasty marker: _CONCERTMASTER DREAM! YOU ARE IN PRACTICE ROOM_ _NUMBER TWO_ _TODAY._ And then, underneath that in a smaller hand: _#2!! THAT’S THE SECOND DOOR TO YOUR LEFT_. _DON’T STEAL INNOCENT PEOPLE’S ROOMS_.

Whoever wrote it hadn’t exactly signed their work, but Dream immediately recognizes the scrawl from the annotations on his own sheet music. 

As if snidely alluding to his illiteracy all week to the entire orchestra hadn’t been bad enough. Dream rips the sign off the wall and crumples it into a ball in his hand. It takes another minute to collect the visible rest from their places, and yet another to stand in the middle of the hallway and hope fervently that George didn’t plant any in the occupied practice rooms. The last thing Dream needs is for someone to be caught in the crossfire of this ridiculous quarrel. 

By the time he’s done checking every single surface on the level, it’s pretty obvious who’s in the practice room at the end of the hall. The rooms try their best to be soundproof but standing in front of the door, Dream can hear the faint strains of Bach— _Chaconne_ , he thinks. George’s piece for the solo competition. 

So it’s with no real pain that he pushes the door handle down and slams the door open with as much malice as he can muster. 

“ _George_ ,” he says, and his assistant principal startles so hard his violin almost leaps out of his grasp. He also screams, but Dream ignores that entirely. The rooms are, after all, still _mostly_ soundproof. “You put _signs_ up?” 

“I thought it might help,” George says primly, once he’s recovered, “seeing your blunder last week.” 

“You know I don’t make the same mistake twice,” Dream sneers. 

George lifts an eyebrow. “I distinctly recall you being called out _two rehearsals in a row_ for the same bowing mistake.” And then, as Dream gapes: “A _bowing_ mistake, Dream. How low can you sink?” 

“That was _two years ago_ ,” Dream says, startled into astonishment. “How do you even remember this?” 

“I have a study guide,” George deadpans. “I refresh myself on your mistakes every night before I go to sleep.” 

“That’s normal.”

“Sure is,” George agrees. “Now is there something you wanted or…?” 

“There’s nothing I could possibly want from _you_ ,” Dream says, and tosses the crumpled ball of paper signs at George’s feet. “See you at rehearsal, idiot.” 

“Dumbass,” George shoots back, but Dream has already stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. 

&

“We,” Dream says, “have to stop meeting like this.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” George says accusingly. “I hate you. Why are you even here.” He jabs his bow angrily in Dream’s general direction, accidentally catching his stand with his elbow and spinning it. His sheet music slips off and falls into an ungraceful heap on the floor. 

“You took my sheet music last rehearsal,” Dream says. “Look, I don’t want to be here anymore than you do—” 

“—I do actually want to be here, considering this is _my_ practice room—”

“—but I’m pretty sure—”

“—I just don’t want _you_ to be here—” 

“—You have my Tchaikovsky,” Dream finishes. At George’s scowl: “You _do_ , don’t you?” 

“It’s none of your business what I do or don’t have,” George says haughtily. “And if I did, then that would be your fault.” 

“How would that be my fault?” 

“You could—I don’t know—have forgotten it or something on the stand!” 

Dream crosses the room in three paces and scoops up George’s fallen sheet music. It crumples a little in his hand and George makes a half-hearted sound of protest which Dream wholeheartedly ignores. 

It’s not his Tchaikovsky. It’s the Chaconne, marked with a long gray streak where George’s pencil had slipped when Dream had barged into his room and other annotations: a quick tick in the shape of a v, one end higher than the other; the narrow curve of the 2, tucked hastily between two notes.

Dream drops the music. Makes a beeline for George’s blue canvas tote bag. It’s propped up against the piano stool and Dream can see the spine of the black folder where George keeps all his music poking out the top. 

Just as Dream swipes for the handles of the bag, George kicks it aside and sends it skidding behind him into the corner. Unfortunately for him, Dream is both stronger and faster than him. He allows George another second to put his violin down on the grand piano’s lid and, taking advantage of that movement, manages to half-wrestle, half-squeeze past him. 

George stumbles back, and for a second, he’s pressed between Dream’s shoulder and the wall, eyes wide and surprised. Still, there’s a clenched determinedness in his jaw that Dream recognizes all too well. Stubborn ass. 

Dream bends over and snatches George’s folder out of his bag. He’s barely taken another step back when George launches himself at him, arms latching onto his with a dogged persistence. Dream yanks his other arm—the one holding the folder—up, where he knows George can’t reach it. 

“Look,” he says, out of breath, and then yelps as George tugs at him and sends him stumbling. “George. I just need my Tchaikovsky. Which you have.” 

“I do _not_ have your stupid Tchaikovsky,” George says, and jumps for the folder. Dream flings his arm backward, out of George’s reach. 

“Well I don’t know who else would have it,” Dream says, logically. George swipes at him again. He dodges. 

George makes an aggravated sound in his throat. “Give me my folder back, Dream.” 

“No.” 

“ _Dream._ ”

“If you really _don’t_ have my Tchaikovsky, you have nothing to hide,” Dream says. He skips backwards again, out of George’s reach. Flips open the folder. Starts tossing non-Tchaikovsky sheet music onto the floor.

More aghast: “ _Dream!_ ” 

This particular method turns out to be just as effective as Dream had hoped. George scrambles to pick up his pages upon pages of music. Dream continues to search. 

“Found it,” he says triumphantly, and pulls it loose. Dream sets the folder on the piano. “Your organization skills are terrible.” 

“You’ve just made it _worse_ ,” George shouts. He swipes for Dream’s feet. Dream dodges. George settles for snatching a Schubert page next to his shoe.

“My Tchaikovsky from last rehearsal was between repertoires from _last year_ ,” Dream says, unimpressed. “Anyway, I’m going to go now. Thanks for being so cooperative.” 

“ _You’re not going to help me clean up?_ ”

“Probably not.” 

“Dream.” George crumples the Schubert in his fist. If his eyebrows tick up anymore Dream is sure they’ll recede into his hairline. 

“Definitely not,” Dream amends. He pops open the door and slips halfway through. “See you tomorrow, George.” 

George chucks the Schubert at his back. Dream pretends it doesn’t hit, and closes the door with a heavy _click_. 

&

They’re halfway through working the Rimsky-Korsakov when the doors creak open and a high school tour group slips quietly through. Out of the corner of his eye, Dream can see them crowd up against the entrance, pressing up against each other to see _the professionals_ in action. 

George, being the unprofessional he is, misses a cue to gawk. The next time first violins have an extended rest, he elbows Dream sharply. 

“ _Your fucking fanboy is here_ ,” he hisses under his breath and then withers a little under their conductor-slash-professor’s glare. Dream looks up, scans the group and—oh, _shit_. 

The conservatory he attends is notoriously prestigious, and there are always flocks of aspiring freshmen that come in for tours. Unfortunately, one of those high schoolers will _not stop coming_. 

Having _definitely_ noticed Dream’s plight, Professor Min smiles and signals for the orchestra to stop playing. 

Immediately: “ _DREAM!_ ” Tommy wriggles his way to the front of the mass of bodies. The other high schoolers—excluding Tubbo, who tags along frequently with him and is now making his apologies as he follows suit to the front—look extraordinarily confused. 

Professor Min clears their throat and says, “Why don’t we take a break? Visitors—” Dream shakes his head fervently. The professor’s benevolent smile only widens. “—please feel free to ask any questions you want. We’ll resume in five minutes.” 

Tommy makes a beeline for first desk. George gets up as fast as he can and leaves which—Dream can fault him for a lot of things, but this is not one of them. 

When Tommy gets to his seat not five seconds later, the first thing he says is, “Can I play your violin?” 

“No,” Dream says. 

“Okay, okay, cool,” Tommy says. “Yeah, I get that.” He pauses. “Are you sure?” 

“Pretty sure.” No way is Dream letting a _child_ handle his ridiculously expensive instrument. Especially not _Tommy_. 

“That’s fine,” Tommy says. “Yeah, no. I totally get it. Gotta respect the grind. These are some very expensive instruments. Wow. This room is probably worth more than Tubbo. Are you _sure?_ ” 

“Yeah,” Dream says. 

“Cool. That’s cool, man,” Tommy peeks at the sheet of music Dream has open on his stand. “ _Scherezade_ , huh? Isn’t it kind of boring?” 

“It’s a nice piece,” Dream says offhandedly. Tommy, predictably, ignores it. 

“I only play _manly_ pieces,” Tommy says, and does something that might constitute for flexing in someone who isn’t entirely made up of gangly stick limbs. “You ever heard of Rimsky-Korsakov’s _Flight of the Bumblebee_ , Dream?” 

“Unfortunately,” Dream says. 

“I play that shit on _two times speed_ ,” Tommy says, and puffs his chest out. “You heard of Lalo’s _Symphonie Espagnole?_ ” 

“Sure.” Dream had played the first movement in middle school. 

“The third movement, now _that_ —” Tommy blows a chef’s kiss. “Some real testosterone shit, I tell you.” 

“I still don’t know what you mean by manly pieces,” Dream says.

Tubbo, who had trailed behind him and is now sitting gingerly on the conductor’s podium, says, helpfully: “He means fast and aggressive pieces. Like Hall of the Mountain King.” 

“ _Exactly_ ,” Tommy says. “But only the really fast part of it.” 

“Audition judges usually like to see more than just the technical aspect,” Dream says with as much patience as he can muster. “Also, professional repertoire has a lot of variety—” 

“Pish, posh,” Tommy says, and launches into an uninterruptible tirade about stylistic choices. 

The first time they’d interacted, he’d spent thirty minutes in an extraordinarily one-sided conversation about his plan to overtake Dream as concertmaster and become what he called the Concertmaster Prime.

“You can call me CP,” Tommy had said and pumped his fist in the air. 

“Like captain!” Tubbo added. 

“Like captain!” Tommy agreed. “Captain Tommy. And you—” he had pointed a finger at Dream then “—you’ll be, what? Ground meat under my boots?”

“Just the concert,” Tubbo suggested. “No more master.” 

“Exactly,” Tommy said, evidently much satisfied by this conclusion.

Now, though: 

Dream checks the clock. Three minutes. He can grit his teeth for three more minutes. 

Tommy says, gleefully: “Dream, I have an idea. A real _poggers_ idea. Do you want to hear it?” 

“No.” 

He is, of course, ignored. “Here’s my idea,” Tommy says. “You don’t like your stand partner right? _George_. God, what a stupid name.” 

Dream, torn between whether to disagree with Tommy or George, says, “Hrng.” 

“So—” and Tommy leans in conspiratorially, “—why don’t you kick him out? _I_ can be assistant principal. You can even pretend I’m George, if it makes your conscience feel cleaner.” 

“We can’t just disappear George,” Dream says, although he desperately wishes he could. Not because he wants Tommy as his assistant principal. Just because a world without George is a very good one. 

Tommy scoffs. “Of course you can, Big D—” 

“—please do _not_ call me that—” 

“—Haven’t you ever seen an episode of Criminal Minds?” When Dream doesn’t respond: “I haven’t either. But I’m pretty sure there are missing people on that show. So, we Criminal Minds George. Pretty poggers, right?” 

“I’m pretty sure people will notice if George suddenly becomes a tall, blonde, sixteen year old,” Dream says. 

“No they won’t,” Tommy says, probably more confident than sane. “Anyway, it’s only for what? Another year? Another two years? Then I’ll just pretend I’m George’s identical, younger brother and enter in the incoming freshman year.”

“That’s—nice,” Dream says. He takes another peek at the clock. Two minutes. How has time passed so _slowly?_ “But don’t you have to make it in first?” 

Tommy scoffs. “Of course I’m going to make it in, Big D—” 

“—I told you to stop calling me that—” 

“—I’m going to go into the audition room and all the judges will be like ‘ _I_ _s that Tommy Innit? I love that guy_ ’—” 

“—the auditions are blind, Tommy—” 

“—and I won’t even have to tune. They’ll just let me in.” 

Beat. Dream says, faintly: “Well, it’s good to know you have your future planned out.” 

&

But Dream _is_ a professional, contrary to all belief. He spends the last half of the rehearsal doing Professional Concertmaster™ things, like fixing bowings and phrasings and whatnot. He only squabbles with George _once_. 

Really. Honestly. It wasn’t even a very long fight. _Those_ are saved for after class. 

After class, Dream packs his violin up, sticks his music into the pocket of his violin case, and goes to see Professor Min. 

“ _Why_ ,” he wails. “We could’ve just gone on with rehearsal. There was _no need_ to let Tommy talk to me.” 

Professor Min looks up mildly and says, “Of course there was a need. That little boy just wanted to learn about our educational institution.” 

“He’s taller than you,” Dream says. “And you _know_ he’s been here what—seven times? Eight times? He knows everything there is to know about this fu—stupid educational institution.” 

“Mm,” Professor Min says. “Maybe you shouldn’t fight so much during class.” Which—Dream probably should have seen coming. Of _course_ they called break because Dream and George had two petty quarrels beforehand. 

“You made us _stand partners_ ,” Dream rebutes. “Stop playing the victim. You _like_ to watch us fight.” 

“Maybe,” They check their watch, and then look back at Dream. “Don’t you have a theory lecture in two minutes?” 

Dream shuts his mouth. Grits his teeth. “I’ll be back,” he says—which he will. Professor Min is his private teacher. He’ll see them tomorrow. 

“I look forward to our discussion,” Min says serenely. “In the meantime, have you ever thought of resolving your differences?” 

“All the damn time,” Dream deadpans, and marches out the door. 

(And if he sprints all the way to his lecture, Professor Min does _not_ need to know.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's any stuff you need explained, please let me know! I don't attend conservatory (all writing is based on research and I've definitely taken a few creative liberties in omission), but I do play the violin so I'd be happy to talk about it.


	2. concerto for two violins in d minor

As schoolwork starts to pick up, Dream sees less and less of George—which is a relief, but it also means he sees less of everyone else. His long nights stretch out into early mornings at the library, and then his early mornings skip into mid-days in the practice rooms. Meaning: Dream spends all his waking hours either practicing, studying, or trying to doze during his Music History lectures. 

“Theory is kicking my _ass_ ,” Sapnap complains into his textbook. It’s one of the rare nights where they’re both at home—he seems even busier than Dream, which is an impressive feat. “Every time I close my eyes for a second it’s like—four goes to five, five goes to seven, seven goes to one. Fa So Ti Do. Perfect cadence. Maybe a six-four inversion if I’m _lucky_.” 

He spits out the last word as if it’s a particularly horrible curse. 

“Mm,” Dream agrees from his bed, where he’s trying to catch a quick four-hour doze before his next class. “Cadence shouldn’t end in an inversion,” he mumbles between a yawn. “’s too weak.” 

Silence, and then: “Fuck you,” Sapnap says quietly. There’s a heavy _thunk_ from the table, like he’s trying to merge his skull and the textbook. 

Dream murmurs something that might be assent, rolls over on his pillow, and passes the fuck out. 

&

It’s a cold Saturday morning, and Dream’s trying to nap in the line for coffee when he notices two things. 

First, someone near the front of the line also has a violin case slung over their shoulder. It’s a familiar case. Even more familiar is the blue tote bag propped at their feet. Dream pulls the brim of his cap lower over his face. It’s only ten in the morning, and he’s too tired to fight. 

The second observation is less of a realization, and more of an unavoidable event. It begins like this:

A different someone slams open the cafe doors with an intensity usually reserved for category five hurricanes.

  
  


“ _MUM_ ,” the red-and-white blur shouts, and nearly trips over two dead-eyed businessmen in his frenzy. Unfortunately, Dream recognizes the voice. 

Tommy’s mother beckons him to her booth. She says something that Dream can’t completely catch (something about his violin, maybe?) and reaches to brush a curl of hair from his eyes. Tommy continues talking at a truly unnecessary volume. 

“It’s not until _twelve_ ,” he whines, and bats off his mom’s fussing hand. “You don’t have to— _yes_ , _of course I’m going to win!_ God, woman. Tubbo and I have been practicing—”

Pause. His mother must tease him, because Tommy groans and puts his face in his hands. 

“I’m _going_ to win,” he barks, “We’re going to _crush_ the competition, stop fussing seriously, you’re like— _yes, I know you’re my mother_ —listen, mum, we’re _not_ going to lose. Not even if—I don’t know—not even if _Dream_ and _George_ team up. Which they aren’t. _YES, I KNOW THAT_.” 

The line shuffles forward. George orders and then disappears into the crowd. 

“Next,” the barista says, just barely audible above Tommy’s groans.

Dream steps to the counter. Next to the register is a stack of bright orange fliers— _ENSEMBLE COMPETITION_ , emblazoned in thick black text. Underneath that, in a smaller font: _Win $25!_

(In the background: “ _Look_ , mum,” Tommy wheedles, pleading and conceited all at once, “Even if they were—they’re bad! They’re awful! Not even good at violin! I’d crush them, easily.”)

He digs his wallet out of his pocket with one hand and points mildly at the stack with the other. “Do I need to sign up for this anywhere?” 

The barista runs a quick eye over the flier, and then shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “It’s an open event. You just have to show up on time.” A pause. “Might be a little late to prepare though. It starts today at twelve.” 

Dream hums noncommittally. Takes a sheet, and slips it into his pocket. Orders. Pays. Turns, and at the condiment bar, George is looking straight at him. 

His assistant principal lifts his go-to cup, as if in toast. Dream meets his gaze evenly. Nods once—just a slight dip of the head, but the meaning is clear as day. For once, they’re both on the same page. 

George tosses a crumpled pack of sugar into the trash can. Dream sweeps his drink off the counter. Grabs a handful of sugars and creamers on his way out. 

Exit, stage left. 

&

Outside, Dream falls into step next to George. 

“Suzuki 4,” he says, and points to the music store across the plaza. The _Suzuki_ book series is a set of teaching books for beginners, but they also have sheet music for J. S. Bach’s infamous _Concerto for Two Violins_. He says as much to George. 

“We could do something else,” George grumbles. “The double concerto is so overplayed.” 

“We should do it _because_ it’s overplayed,” Dream corrects. “We only have two hours—less, actually. It’s an easy-ish piece, and we both know it well.” 

“Not enough time for interpretation,” George says. What he doesn’t say, but they both hear: is there any point in learning Bach without interpreting it? 

Dream says, firmly, “It doesn’t matter. I don’t think whoever’s judging this will be able to tell.” 

He braces himself, but George must be tired too because he doesn’t argue back. All he says is: “Fine. But I only have two dollars on me. Cash. You’re going to have to pay.” 

“I won’t make a habit of it,” Dream mutters. George rolls his eyes. 

“I’ll pay you back tomorrow in class,” he says. “We only have two hours, Dream. Just buy the damn book.” 

&

Dream buys the damn book, and then drives George back to his apartment because neither of them have practice rooms. The car ride is, for the most part, silent. Dream slides _Kidz Bop 35_ —Sapnap had given it to him for Christmas the year before—into the CD player and presses play. 

“This cannot be real,” George says under his breath as Dream pulls into the parking lot. _Hang by the fire at night_ , the speaker warbles as if in response, _Those shiny diamonds all white. Lucky for you that’s what like, that’s what I like_ …...

“Oh come on now,” Dream says as pleasantly as he can, just to be contrary. “It’s not that bad.” He sings a line to illustrate his point, suppresses a smile when George slumps further into his seat. 

“I hate you,” George says, voice strained. “I—genuinely. I hate you.” 

“Lucky for me,” Dream says sweetly. “I wouldn’t have it _any other way_.” 

&

Inside the apartment: 

Dream flips the book open on his stand, sends a thanks to whatever God is up there that Sapnap is out for the morning. The three of them together, alone—that’s truly unbearable, he thinks. Better to let _Tommy_ usurp him as concertmaster. 

The thought brings him back to himself. He turns to George and says, “Do you want first or second violin?” 

“Hm?” George looks up from his tuner—his violin is tucked between his chin and his shoulder and he has one steadying hand on the body and one hand twisting the pegs. He has nice hands, Dream thinks absently, and then nearly recoils in horror from the thought. George says, distractedly, “Oh. I don’t really….care.” 

He’s trying not to make it too obvious that he’s ogling at Dream’s apartment, but he’s obvious enough. Dream thinks about calling him out for it, and then remembers _hands_ and—well. Pot and the kettle. 

Eventually, George says, “We could flip a coin for it.” 

Dream startles. “Huh?” He’d been studiously looking everywhere _except_ George’s hands and had somehow ended up ruminating on his violin instead—a lovely thing, reddish-brown like a…..well, he isn’t very good at metaphors. 

God. This truce is awful. 

“We could do that,” he agrees, after a pause. He digs his wallet out of his pocket, pulls a coin from the wallet. Throws it up and says, “Call it.”

Without looking: “Heads.” 

The coin clatters to the ground. Dream picks it up.

“Tails,” he says, and then immediately wonders if he should have lied. He really, _really_ , empirically, does not want to fight. 

Surprisingly—maybe even more so than his quiet _I don’t care_ about his part—George doesn’t even bother to argue. 

“I guess I get the bigger part,” is all he says, and goes back to tuning. He’s right—the second violin part is printed larger than the first violin because that’s the expected skill level of Suzuki 4 players. It’s a definite advantage, but Dream can’t honestly muster the energy to care. And maybe that’s the most surprising part of the whole thing. 

Instead, it just feels—strange. There’s all but a stranger in his house, scraping his violin strings with Dream’s quarter. A tenuous middle ground, wider than a football field between them. He thinks: is there something worth seeing, if he ventures out into that unmarked land? 

_Have you ever thought of resolving your differences?_ Professor Min’s words float, unbidden, to the front of his mind. He thinks: maybe now is the time. 

“Also I come in first,” George says, not quite hiding the smugness bleeding into his tone, and all Dream’s careful introspection flies out the window. 

&

By some miracle, they don’t manage to strangle each other to death before twelve o’clock rolls around. It comes close at times, but when Dream’s ten-minute alarm goes off, they’re both alive and unfortunately well. 

Of course, the same can’t really be said for the Bach—despite the vast amounts of skill between them, the time frame is still far too narrow for it to be anywhere _near_ perfect. Dream still stumbles at awkward string crossings and mixes one phrase for another; George still manages to sound slightly out of tune at his fourths and struggles with his dynamics. It’s a learning process that can’t be processed. 

(George makes faces, Dream has discovered, when he plays audibly bad; scrunched up and discontent. It would have been endearing, if he hadn’t immediately opened his mouth to spew bullshit afterwards.) 

_Anyway_ , the point is: they’re disjointed and it’s awful and really, they sound more like two soloists playing at the same time than a duet performance. But they work with what they have. 

Dream drives them back to the cafe, wire stand folded and tucked in George’s tote bag along with the music. The radio stays off—Dream had made an aborted motion towards the _Play_ button and George had glared at him so hard it gave Dream psychic damage. So, yeah: the radio stays off. 

They’re late—” _Fashionably_ ,” George insists, and Dream rolls his eyes so hard he nearly falls over—and there’s a string quartet on the makeshift stage performing Vivaldi’s _Autumn_ when they slink in. But they didn’t miss Tommy’s performance, which is the important thing. Dream snags a relatively clean table from a departing group and beckons George to slide into the booth with him. 

George leans towards him and says, just barely audible over the polite applause as the piece ends and the low thrum of conversation, “Do you want to go before or after him?” 

Dream lets his gaze slide to the side, where a duo—a guitarist and a pianist, by the looks of things—are ascending the stage. It’s easier than looking at George, at least, whose nose is so close to Dream’s they could brush if they were of the inclination.

Which they aren’t! Dream dismisses the thought—tries to, at least, and is for the most part, unsuccessful—and thinks about the question instead. 

“After,” he decides, after a while. “Directly after. Blow him out of the water, you know?” 

George arches an eyebrow. “I do know,” he says and—yeah, that’s pretty much a summary of their relationship thus far. Fair enough. 

So they wait. Clap along to one group’s surprisingly nice rendition of ABBA’s _Mamma Mia_ and listen to another’s impassioned slam poetry about the effervescence of childhood, and then _finally_ —

Tommy steps onto the stage, violin in hand and bow in the other. He has a glittery suit jacket draped over his shoulders, which is both completely unnecessary and a great juxtaposition to his plain red-and-white t-shirt and blue denim jeans. Behind him, Tubbo follows with a considerably less flair (though he still has a bee-printed tie clipped onto the collar of his shirt) holding a—

“ _Tubbo plays the trombone??_ ” 

“I think he plays several instruments, actually,” George says with a frown. Clearly the trombone is new to him too; Dream had always just assumed Tubbo played a string instrument like Tommy did.

“Good morning everyone,” Tommy says pompously. “I’m Tommy. This is Tubbo.” 

“I’m Tubbone,” Tubbo says. He waves.

Tommy makes a face at that, and then huffs. Rolls his eyes like _can you believe this guy?_ But continues. “Today we’re going to be playing a _visionary_ version of my favorite piece. Flight of the Bumblebee by Rimsky-Korsakov. I say it’s visionary because—well. Trombone. And violin.” 

Tubbo pats his trombone. “It’s pretty good,” he says helpfully. “Tommy and I spent ages arranging it.” 

“We _did_ arrange it ourselves,” Tommy says. “Well, I say _we_ but I did most of it. Not to brag.” 

“That’s a lie,” Tubbo says, still helpfully. 

“ _Tubbo_.” 

“Oh.” And then, after a pause: “Oh! _Yeah_ , that was a lie. The bit I said was a lie. Tommy did all of the work, really.” 

“Most.”  
  


“ _Most_ of the work.” 

“Anyway,” Tommy says, “here’s our groundbreaking version of _Flight of the Bumblebee._ If any scouts for a certain prestigious conservatory in our area want to, I don’t know, give me a full scholarship—” 

“—I’d like one too, please—” 

“—I think that would be very pogchamp indeed.” Tommy props his violin onto his shoulder. “We are going to start now. Please clap.” 

Dream claps. George does not. 

The _visionary_ version turns out to be a….strangely rearranged jazzy version of the piece which is—interesting. George chokes at the first few bars, and then has to stand up and excuse himself to the bathroom, presumably to choke some more. 

It’s not _bad_ , per se—actually, it’s quite average in terms of rearrangement. No, what makes it interesting is two things. 

One: Tommy plays _much faster_ than Tubbo. Actually, he accelerates and decelerates throughout the piece as he tires and regains his energy. At one point, he stops playing entirely. Puts his bow on a nearby table. Shakes his bow arm vigorously, and then launches back into the piece with a truly unmatched ferocity. Jerks his bow back and forth so fast his left hand can barely arrange themselves into cohesive notes. And so on and so forth. 

Tubbo, of course, continues playing cheerfully at a constant pace. 

Two: neither of them seem to be particularly perturbed by this. Actually, both their faces are scrunched up in intense concentration and, in Tommy’s case, pure chaotic glee.

Their completely baseless confidence actually draws it together in a way—or something. Tommy’s swagger and Tubbo’s determined puffs makes the performance _something,_ for sure. 

Which is all just to say: Dream spends the entire piece alternating between _this is the worst thing I’ve ever heard_ and _it’s actually kind of good??_

Or, even more succinctly: _what the_ fuck _am I listening to?_

George comes back from the bathroom near the end, when Tommy begins an innovative form of ricochet (which is pretty much all it sounds like—the bow, ricocheting in a controlled manner off the strings) by stomping his feet determinedly with his bow still on the strings. 

(Well— _usually_ a controlled manner). 

In any case, George looks pained. Dream thinks maybe he’s reconsidering his violin performance major. 

Finally, as the piece crescendoes into its grand finale: Tommy _aces_ the final chord (was there a final chord before, in the piece? Dream’s soul is too busy weeping to remember). Sweeps his bow up in a grand, proud arc. Behind him, Tubbo slowly lowers his trombone, panting. 

The audience claps politely. Dream, too stunned to even move, doesn’t. 

The host steps back up to the microphone. “What a wonderful performance! Please give those lovely gentlemen another round of applause.” 

George claps—whether out of irritation or impatience or genuine support, Dream can’t tell. Actually, he’s a bit hard pressed to remember his own _name_ at the moment. 

Once the applause has quieted, the host continues. “If there is anyone else who would like to perform, please volunteer now. Remember—” 

“ _Us,_ ” George hisses to Dream, whose life is still flashing in front of his eyes. Louder: “We do! My partner and I.” 

“Excellent,” the host beams. “Come up here and introduce yourselves and what you’re playing!” 

“Fuck you,” he says to Dream. Places his violin in one hand—Dream’s fingers instinctively tighten over its neck—and bow in the other and begins dragging him by the crook of his elbow to the stage. 

Luckily, he snaps back into it just before they walk on—blinks back the last of the stars. Shakes his head like a wet dog to clear his head a bit, and then pulls his arm free of George’s. “What the _fuck_ was that,” he hisses out of the corner of his mouth. “What did I just listen to? Was it good? Was it bad? What the fuck?” 

“Don’t know,” George says lowly, and that’s the end of it. He looks to the crowd and says, “I’m George. This is Dream. We’re playing the Bach Double Concerto.” 

In the front, Tubbo recognizes them. He elbows Tommy. Tommy, too busy gloating about his performance to his mom, ignores him. 

There’s a smatter of polite applause. George props his chin on his violin, and begins playing. 

The piece begins with a second violin solo so Dream waits for his entrance—it’s a bit rocky, but after a few bars of struggling to sync up with George, he continues on smoothly. The technicalities of the piece are rough, but the style is intrinsically familiar to them both—a push and a pull, like a dialogue. Like a banter. Dream plays over George, high notes singing fast and bright on his E-string, and then subsides as George picks up the melody, washing over him like the tide. 

Back and forth and back again, continuously. One wave, crashing over the other, quarreling for the melody. 

Before Dream knows it, they’re in the home stretch—the last iteration of the theme, notes proud until they reach the last phrase. He slows—George watches him out of the corner of his eye, watching his cue, and slows also. There’s a tartness to their notes, in the end—two parts coming together in grudging harmony. Compromise, not compassion. 

There’s no ceremony to it; the applause is no more polite than it had been before. Still, he looks at George to his left and sees the same gleaming satisfaction reflected in his eyes. 

Thinks: the gap between us isn’t so large after all. 

He takes the violin off his shoulder. George follows suit. Dream puts his violin in his right hand, with his bow. Offers his left.

“It was weird today,” he says. It’s not an offering of friendship—they’ve been fighting far too long to jump straight to that. It’s more of a peace offering. A chance to be not-friends, but not-enemies too. 

The corner of George’s lips quirk up into a smile. “We can agree on that.” 

He takes it—bridges the gap. When they bow, they bow in sync. 

&

They don’t win. Of course they don’t win—they’d learned, practiced, and coordinated in two hours. Less, maybe. Tommy and Tubbo don’t win either, though, so Dream calls it a job well done. 

“I’ll get you one of these days,” Tommy says, and it might be a show of good sportsmanship but more likely it’s a threat. Dream smiles and nods. He’s not really sure what else he can do. 

“It was—interesting,” George says. “Working with you.” 

“We’ve technically been working together for a while. Orchestra, remember?” 

George rolls his eyes. “Working with you one on one, then. It was interesting.” After a pause, in a way Dream knows he doesn’t mean it, “Don’t call me up again.” 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Dream says. “You’re just my booty call.” 

“Sure,” George agrees. Hoists his tote bag over his shoulder. “We’re not-friends with very few benefits.” 

Dream wiggles his eyebrows. “We _could_ fuck.” 

“Ew,” George says dispassionately. “See you around, Dream.” 

“See you tomorrow,” he says. George turns and heads back to wherever he was going before he was roped into performing a duet with his worst enemy. Dream gets in his car and goes home. 

&

Dream arrives at orchestra the next day. George says, “Fuck you,” and hands him five dollars to pay for the Suzuki 4. Dream dumps the book, wrapped horribly in discount Christmas wrapping, on his lap. 

If they argue less in class the next day, no one mentions it. The orchestra plays on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took a while! School has been kicking my ass and I've been pretty busy in general - also, the chapter in general was a bit difficult to write. Hopefully it feels alright though. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who kudosed, bookmarked, and/or left a comment on the last chapter! I didn't think this would have this much support, honestly - it's a bit of a niche au, after all - but I'm endlessly grateful for it. Seriously. You guys make my day. I'm very sorry I couldn't get around to responding to all of your comments, but ultimately I just got too busy for it. 
> 
> If you need anything music-related to be explained, I'd be happy to do it for you! Just pop into the comments and I'll try to get to you.


	3. string quartet in f major

Dream’s on his way to rehearsal when he reaches into his pocket and finds—nothing. 

Which is fine! His ID card is _supposed_ to be in there and it may or may not unlock many otherwise locked doors on the way to said rehearsal but it’s fine. Really. He can call Sapnap and nicely ask him to rescue him from the hell that is the hallway outside the Arts department. People forget their IDs all the time. It’s not a big deal at all. 

Until he puts his hand in his _other_ pocket and his hand closes around nothing. Again. 

Ah. _Now_ it’s a big deal. 

He thinks about it for a second—tries to remember the last time he saw either item, to no avail. Checks the pocket of his violin case, and then his pants pockets again, and then his violin case again in case he slipped one or the other in with his sheet music by accident. And still—nothing. Somehow, Dream got out of bed, through the door, and _all the way to campus_ without realizing the two pillars upon which his entire life rests were both _missing._

Really, the fact that he got as far as he did is commendable. If the clock above the very firmly locked door didn’t read _four minutes until rehearsal_ , he would be mildly impressed with himself. 

But the clock does read four minutes until rehearsal, so he isn’t. Not even a little bit. 

He’s seriously considering barging into a random class and demanding someone’s ID when he hears it: behind a corner, the faint _pit pit pit pat squeak_ of sneakers against linoleum, steadily growing louder. Someone headed in his direction. 

Dream’s not a religious man by any means, but the sound alone is enough to convert him. He turns, fully expecting to see Jesus descending from the heavens. 

“I could _kiss_ you,” Dream says fiercely at the same time George says, “ _Dream?_ ” 

“Sorry—” they both say at the same time, and George waves for him to continue. Dream opens his mouth—and then his brain catches up, and he shuts it derisively again. 

Had George heard? Dream scrutinizes him for a moment—he’d sounded surprised, or maybe a little confused, and his face is impassive. His moods are harder to parse these days, when their relationship is some blurred intersection between _friends?_ and _strangers I’d like to know, probably_ and _ex-enemies_ with a slew of red question marks around the _ex_. Or maybe Dream had never known his moods at all; it was easier, after all, when every conversation could be summed up with either rage or bitter annoyance. 

He settles for saying: “You’re going to be late.” 

George’s left eyebrow ticks up. “You’re the one just— _standing_ out here. If anything, you’re going to be late. 

Dream winces. “I forgot my ID card,” he admits reluctantly. 

“ _Ha_ ,” George gloats, and his voice carries triumphant—until he remembers they’re supposed to be _friends_ now, or _something_ —something that isn’t enemies, in any case, and the sound dies in his throat. He looks away. Swallows whatever insult he had prepared. Clears his throat and says, “Yeah. I can—yeah.” 

He pulls his ID from his bag. Crosses Dream in two paces, gaze firmly affixed to the wall, and presses the card to the scanner. It beeps—once, twice, and the red light flashes green. The doors unlock with a heavy _click_. 

George steps aside. Inclines his head. “After you.” 

&

They’re on time to rehearsal by a fraction of a minute. Dream barely has time to sit down before the TA ascends the conductor’s podium. 

“Good afternoon,” Bad says once the orchestra has quieted. He sets a binder down on the stand before him. “I hope all of you muffins have had a wonderful day so far.” 

“Debatable,” George says, from next to Dream. 

“Oh,” Bad says. “Well—” 

“It’s fine,” Dream tells him. Punches George lightly in the shoulder— _very_ lightly, enough that he doesn’t even _jostle_ —and George punches his arm back, _hard_. 

Realization, and then an amused understanding flits across Bad’s face. “Stop fighting,” he huffs. Taps his baton twice against the stand and Dream reluctantly draws back. “Thank you. I just wanted to announce that the roommate list for those of you who opted to stay in the hotel for the Winter Festival has been posted by the doors. You can check them after class. That’s all. Practice hard!” 

“Practice hard so we can beat the Institute—the _shit_ stitude up,” Dream adds, far too emphatically for someone who barely made rehearsal on time. 

Bad, exasperatedly: “ _Language_. And we shouldn’t be—we should be _learning_ from them. You should all learn and make friends while—” 

“We should be _humiliating_ them.” 

“—at the Festival. _No we shouldn’t_ , it’s important to—” 

“Thank you,” Professor Min says. Levels an inscrutable look at them both, and then turns to address the class. “I trust you all know that both are correct. I trust you all _also_ know that we must not let our petty in-fighting to split us apart. It is common wisdom, but still true.” 

“This lecture feels oddly targeted,” Dream says, loudly. 

“I have no idea what you could mean by that,” Professor Min replies. “Would you care to elaborate?” 

“Absolutely not,” George says. And that’s the end of it. 

&

...at least, until after class, when Dream puts away his violin and goes to check the roommate list. It takes a while to actually see it—the rest of the orchestra is crowded around the sheet as well, and it takes some jostling and a few elbows to his ribs before he glimpses it. 

And, of course, because the world is incredibly unfair, as soon as he sees it he immediately wishes he hadn’t.

Neatly printed in the column next to his own name like it isn’t a big deal (it’s a big deal), like a curse: _George_. 

&

The morning of the Festival, Sapnap nearly oversleeps. Dream kicks him awake with the ferocity of a man hunted, quadruple checks all their luggage, and then checks it again just in case. 

“G’morning,” Sapnap mumbles. Yawns. “Hm. It’s kinda—it—it’s—” he squeezes his eyes shut, forehead crinkling in an apparently fruitless attempt to produce a thought. “It’s kinda early. Isn’t it?” 

Dream grunts something that might be agreement and shoves an old granola bar he’d found underneath his bed into Sapnap’s hand. “Eat,” he says brusquely. 

Sapnap looks thirty seconds from passing right back out but he obediently unpeels the wrapper and snarfs it down in a few bites before sliding out of bed to muddle about his own things. 

Dream shoves him into the car, starts the engine, and guns it to campus. 

The morning air is crisp and dark, and the roads are reverently quiet. Dream hadn’t slept well the night before—rarely ever did, before a big event—but sleep seems entire concerts away. Even Sapnap wakes up in the cold and in the brief snatches of light, Dream can see the panic settle into his bones like the chill. 

They’re experienced at it, though, holding the nerves under like a cat in water. And it doesn’t get easier, but it gets more _bearable_. So there’s that. 

Dream parks his shitty little car next to a thin tree—a _twig_ , really, tree is too strong of a word—in the campus parking lot. Yanks his luggage out. Begins the brisk walk to the charter bus at the front of the school, and in between the amber glow of the campus streetlights, his breath expands into a cloud of fine white mist before him. 

As they approach, Professor Min greets them with a curt nod, face flushed underneath a thick gray scarf, and checks something off their clipboard. Inclines their head towards the first bus of four. 

Dream drops off his suitcases—he keeps his violin for the overhead—and boards the bus. 

The bus aisles are dimly lit with white light. Dream shoves Sapnap into an empty seat near the front, where they can easily discuss the nuances of the performance with Professor Min, and then takes the seat next to him. Looks out the window—Sapnap’s window, technically—and into the night. 

It’s peaceful. Even as George boards and takes the seat across the aisle—even as they meet eyes and exchange murmured greetings, it’s peaceful. Quiet, like they all understand each other exactly. 

It’s nice. That’s all. 

&

He begins to doze off, as the sun rises; George is talking to Professor Min—they’re discussing the acoustics of the Institute’s theater or something—and the lull of conversation soothes Dream into sleep as the adrenaline begins to drain out of him. 

It’s not exactly a good rest—a doze, really, like being underwater. Sometimes he gets close enough to the surface to glean a snatch of conversation—

“—can be such a—such a _nimrod_ sometimes—” 

“—dude, right? Why do we even need him? To—” 

—and he has a brief moment to wonder _who?_ or _what?_ And then he’s sinking again, into the respite of sleep. 

When he wakes up for real, washed up on the shores of awareness, there’s a painful crick in his neck and Sapnap’s saying, “—eam. Dream.” 

“Hhhhhggh?” 

“We’re at a rest stop,” Sapnap says. “I’d let you sleep in but—” he motions apologetically to Dream’s head on his shoulder. “I kind of want to piss in a real toilet before we keep driving. The bus ones are weird.” 

“Hgh,” Dream says, again. Clears his throat. “Hck. Ugh. Yeah. I also—toilet. Right.” He rises to his feet unsteadily, wipes the sleep from his eyes. “You want chip? Chips. Fuck. Do they sell chips here?” 

“They do,” Sapnap says, amused. “And yeah. Sure. Why not?” 

“Cool.” Dream nearly trips down the stairs, catches himself on the railing just in time. “Cool. Great. I’m going to go piss in that real toilet first.” 

“I’d race you,” Sapnap says, “but I’m afraid you’d fall and crack your head open on the pavement.” 

“Aw,” Dream says. “You _do_ care.” 

“Eat shit, bitch ass.” Sapnap flips him the middle finger and takes off.

&

As he’s coming out of the bathroom, Dream bumps into George. His hair is mussed up from sleeping on the bus and his hoodie is wrinkled and his eyes are still half-closed like he’s trying to nap while deciding between a box of chocolate raisins and a pack of gummy bears, but otherwise he looks perfectly lucid. Which is about what Dream expected anyway, of course. It’s not as if George is _sleepwalking_.

Before Dream can just walk by, Sapnap says, “Hey George.” 

“ _Sapnap_ ,” Dream hisses but is rather unfortunately drowned out by the Christmas music blasting overhead.

“Hey Sapnap,” George says. He puts down the gummy bears. Turns, and if his gaze snags and lingers a bit on Dream, Dream is _not overanalyzing it_. God forbid they decide to be enemies again—they’d been enemies the year before and then the year before _that_ , and both times the Winter Festival had been completely and absolutely unbearable. 

_God_. And they’re sharing a room this year. 

“I really enjoyed our conversation earlier,” Sapnap says to George. It’s an _awful_ conversation starter but Dream recognizes the look on his face. He’s determined to prolong Dream’s suffering for as long as he can.

“Yeah I—” George squints at him, trying to determine an ulterior motive. “Yeah,” he settles for saying. “It was fun.” 

“We should do it again,” Sapnap continues doggedly. 

“Have….a conversation?” 

Sapnap smiles. “ _Gossip_.” 

George’s eyes dart towards Dream and suddenly, he has a very good idea of what they’re talking about. He laughs nervously. Shoves Sapnap gently on the shoulder and sends him stumbling into the freezer door. 

“Ha,” he says. “Ha. Ha. Um. Sapnap. Chips. What chips—what type of chips do you want? I think—I like—why don’t we go look at the chips aisle? Together?” 

Sapnap shoves him back. “Yeah, sure,” he says, sweetly. “George, wanna come? Dream is buying chips for us.” 

Dream opens his mouth to say _what_ or maybe _I am_ not _buying George chips too_ , but George beats him to the punch. “Sure,” he says, and the fucking corner of his mouth is twitching—he’s _laughing_. The bastard is _laughing_ at Dream. “If Dream’s paying for it.” 

“Oh, absolutely,” Sapnap says. Hooks one arm in George’s, and the other in Dream’s. Beams and says, “Isn’t this fun? I’m so glad we’re all friends.” 

“ _When did you become friends_ ,” Dream despairs. 

“Well, you know,” Sapnap says. Gestures loosely. “Now and then.” 

“I helped him with his homework earlier this year,” George says. “And then he thought I was _so cool_ —” 

“You’re _lying_ , that’s your _lying_ voice—” 

“I’m not lying,” George lies, in his lying voice. “Sapnap thought I was cool—” 

“It’s true, I _did_ think he was so cool—I thought _wow, this upperclassman is so old I need to help him before he dies_ —” 

“—I’m _not_ old—” 

“—and you know, I wanted to get closer to him because he was so cool—” 

“—I asked when you became friends,” Dream interrupts, already regretting asking the question. “Not your entire life story.” 

“Oh,” Sapnap says. “That’s like….two hours ago? While you were sleeping on the bus.” 

“Technically it’s three,” George says. “But I think our discussion while you were in the bathroom really helped us grow closer as friends and people.” 

“Your _what_.” 

“Don’t be jealous.” Sapnap pats Dream on the arm sympathetically. “Just because I have a new BFF doesn’t mean I care about you any less.” 

“You literally told me to eat shit five minutes ago.” 

“I meant it in a loving way.” 

“His love language is bullying,” George adds, unhelpfully. Dream thinks about just—punching him straight in his stupid, smug face but Sapnap grins at that. 

“You get me so well, George,” he says. And then, to Dream: “This is why _he’s_ my best friend now. Sorry Dream-y. You’re going to have to step up your game.” 

“I’m not paying for your chips.” 

“This is—this is—it’s _blackmailing_ ,” George says before Sapnap can begin grovelling. Turns, and says, “ _I_ could pay for your chips. Don’t listen to him.” 

“You won’t,” Dream says, confidently. Raises a finger as George opens his mouth to speak. “If you shut up until we get back on the bus, I’ll pay for your chocolate raisins too.”

George shuts his mouth. It’s a loss for his wallet, but Dream considers it a victory anyway. 

&

The hotel is a big, grand thing—the school had gotten a good deal on rooms, apparently—and a hundred or so tired college students from a range of different practices dragging luggage across the polished floor only improves the lobby’s decorum.

As they part for their respective rooms, Sapnap pats George on the shoulder sympathetically. “I feel bad for you,” he says. “I can’t _imagine_ rooming with Dream. What a nightmare.” 

“We’re _live together_ ,” Dream says, outraged. “I dragged your stupid ass out of bed this morning so you could _be_ here, making friends with—with this _chucklehead_.” 

They both ignore him. George says, “I _know._ We should just dump our roommates and room together.” 

Sapnap shakes his head. He looks more regretful than he should. Dream wants to throttle him. “I can’t do that to poor Karl, man. Dream would eat him alive.” 

“I’m going to eat _you_ alive.” 

They ignore him. _Again_. “I totally understand,” George nods sagely. “It’s really—you’re really being kind. And noble.” 

“You’re a good pal,” Sapnap says. Lightly bumps Dream with his shoulder. “I’m gonna go stash my stuff now. Good luck, dude. You’re going to need it.” 

George lifts a hand. “Of course. I’m glad I have a—a _poggers_ best friend like you.” 

“Samesies. Text me for lunch!” 

“You have _lunch_ plans?” 

&

Dream does _not_ sulk. Has never sulked in his entire life. And, if things go to plan, _will_ never sulk in his entire life and certainly, Sapnap and George will _not_ make him start now. 

Still, when George unlocks the room, Dream drags his luggage in, dumps it in any old place haphazardly, and throws himself onto a bed. Sapnap’s so _stupid_ sometimes. George is stupid too, obviously, but he’s just doing it to get at Dream. Rivalry is a hard habit to break. 

Seriously. How did _Sapnap_ become friends with _George_? It’s stupid. They’re both stupid. Dream screams into the pillow. 

“That’s cool,” George says from the bathroom. “I’m taking all the free shit, by the way.” 

Dream rolls over. There’s a thin crack in the ceiling above him. He prays fervently that it will split open and the rest of the hotel will crush him right now and kill him. Dream waits a moment.

When the ceiling doesn’t collapse, he settles for saying, petulantly, “ _I_ want free shit too.” 

“I’ve already called dibs.”

“You’re stealing my _friend_ , you’re indebted to me.” 

George pokes his head out of the bathroom. And if Dream didn’t know better, he thinks George might be _teasing_ when he says, “Is Sapnap only worth a bar of soap to you?” 

Shit. “No.” 

George hums. “Cause if so, I don’t think he’ll be inviting you to lunch with us…” 

“Fuck you,” Dream says, with feeling. “Fine. Fuck. Whatever. Take the free soap, cheapskate. Lunch better be the fanciest fucking venue in the world with all that soap money you’re saving.”

“Obviously,” George says. “We have _standards_.” 

&

“....but we also have a budget,” George says and _fuck_ , Dream just wants to wipe the fucking smile of his stupid fucking face. He’s so smug if physically _hurts_. 

They’re standing outside a McDonalds. Dream considers shoving George into the incoming traffic, but decides the legal ramifications might not be worth it. _Might_. 

“You said _steak_ ,” he bemoans to Sapnap because complaining is the next best thing to murder.

“Steak is made of beef,” Sapnap says.

“It’s made of _good_ beef.” 

“Hey man,” Sapnap says. “Not cool. The Quarter Pounder™ _is_ good beef.” 

This is patently false. Dream had had a Quarter Pounder once, and it had been a horrible burger all around. But being a good friend (which Dream _is_ ) means that he’s not going to point out Sapnap’s obviously horrible taste even if he _is_ a backstabbing traitor. Dream is a very good friend like that. 

So he follows them into the McDonalds with minimal (well—maybe not _minimal_ ) grumbling. Orders something something with a side of whatever. Plonks down in any seat and the other two follow suit. 

They’re quiet for a while, then; there’s not much to bicker about while eating and it’s good enough company that Dream doesn’t find any reasons to begin. Dream finishes his burger and begins picking at his fries. Looks out the window for a second, watching the traffic rush by, and then George says, “Can I—” and steals a fry. 

“You didn’t even finish asking,” Dream says indignantly.

“You didn’t stop me,” George says. Swipes the fry through a bit of ketchup with one hand, and flips him off with the other. 

“I’m _tired_. I woke up at ass o’clock this morning—I don’t have the _reflexes_.” 

“I’m also tired! I deserve a fry!” 

“Fellas,” Sapnap begins, magnanimously, and Dream says, “Shut _up,_ ” at the same time George says, “No one cares, Sapnap.” 

They look at each other. 

Dream says, “Huh.” 

George eats his fry. 

&

In the evening, the theater is abuzz with an excitement that reinvents the place. The SB Institute theater is by no means unimpressive during the day but the evening turns it _golden_. 

Sapnap says, “Wilbur said they were by the stairs.” 

“There’s like _three sets_ of those,” Dream says, a little breathless from excitement. “Tell them—ask them—” 

“I see them,” George interrupts. “They’re on the one over—yeah, there.” 

Dream only has ten minutes before he has to go on stage. He’s already forcing his way through the crowd. 

He knows it when he sees them. Wilbur’s perched on the flat part of a silver railing, yellow sweater bright against the white quartz stairs; he waves when he sees Dream, and nudges Techno with his foot. 

“Hey,” Dream says. 

“Hey,” Techno responds in kind at the same time Wilbur says, “We’re going to _crush_ you, Dream. Your orchestra is going to be a _smear_ on the _ground_ by the time we’re done with you. And the _cockroaches_ , Dream, the cockroaches—” 

“I—” Dream tries to interject. 

“—shut the fuck up, green boy!—the cockroaches will _turn their noses_ up at you, that’s how fucked up your orchestra will be when we’re done with you.” 

“Ha,” Sapnap says. “ _Cock_ roach.” 

Dream shoves at him and says, “Wilbur, that’s just untrue. _We’re_ going to—we’re going to fuck _you_ up. Completely.” 

Techno says, “That’s not quite as poetic, I’m going to be honest with you.” He sounds deeply, _deeply_ disinterested in the conversation, but Dream’s like, ninety percent sure that’s just his normal voice. “I think Wilbur wins this one.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Dream says. “We’ll ruin you tomorrow. _That’s_ what you should be worried about not—not _poetry_.” 

“Well,” Wilbur says, slyly, “who says we can’t have the ruining _and_ the poetry? If you know what I mean.” 

“ _Absolutely_ not,” Techno says, and oh. He can do voices other than monotonous disinterest —namely, abject horror. This is new to Dream. “Wilbur, you can’t—Wilbur we share a _room_. I’m a _good_ roommate Wilbur, you can’t just—this isn’t allowed!”

“You never pick up your socks,” Wilbur complains. “I don’t know if that’s _good_ roommate behavior. I’m sure _Dream’s_ roommate—Dream, who are you rooming with? Sapnap? Sapnap, you would—” 

“No,” Sapnap says. 

Dream says, “I’m rooming with George, actually.”

Wilbur opens his mouth. 

“No,” George says. 

“ _Please_ , Gogy,” Wilbur pleads. “Poetry is—it’s _so_ important these days. Gogy, how am I supposed to diss you if your comebacks are thoroughly, ah—as your Americans say, _weak sauce?_ ” 

George arches an eyebrow. There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, Dream thinks. “You just want to study poetry? Is that it?” 

“I just want to teach Dream poetry,” Wilbur says, with a completely straight face. “Shall I compare him to a summer’s day? Dream is more lovely and more temperate—” 

“He’s not lovely _or_ temperate,” Sapnap says and George says, “ _True_.” 

“Hey,” Dream protests, feeling oddly offended. 

“I’m glad to see our rival school is so united,” Techno deadpans. “It really says a lot about their skill and character.” 

“It also—you’re our _rival_ ,” Dream says. “That implies you can’t surpass us, even if—” 

“Even when,” Wilbur interrupts. “Tell it as it is, Dream.” 

“Even _when_ we’re not united.” 

“We’re rivals because of _tradition_ ,” Techno says, exasperated. “Not because we’re at the same level. Actually—” 

“Am I interrupting something?” 

Techno scrambles up from where he’s been sitting on the stairs. “Phil!” 

Phil—the Institute’s string orchestra conductor—smiles in greeting. “Hey mate,” he says. Casts an appraising eye over the scene. “I see you’re conversing with the enemy, huh?” 

“We’re trash-talking them,” Wilbur says. He slides off the railing, brushes a speck of imaginary dust off his trousers. “What do you take us for? Traitors?” 

“Obviously not,” Phil says, amused. 

Wilbur says, comfortably, “So why are you here, Phil? Did you get tired of being polite to all the crotchety old professors?” Before Phil can speak: “I don’t blame you. They’re kind of a—they’re a bit of a pretentious lot, aren’t they?” 

Phil laughs. “I hope you’re not including _me_ in that assessment.” 

“Of course not,” Wilbur says. “I told you, I’m no traitor.” 

“Well, I can’t—I can neither confirm nor deny the pretentiousness of my— _most_ of my colleagues,” Phil says in a tone that implies he _is_ confirming it, actually. “I came to get Techno—we’re supposed to be backstage soon. Dream, you too.”

“ _Concertmasters_ ,” Sapnap says, with derision. He and George share a mutual look of contempt that can only be attributed to knowing Dream for as long as they have. As the number one Technoblade enthusiast, Wilbur refrains from such glances.

&

In the hallway backstage, the two of them wait to be ushered out onto the stage; Techno’s fingers skitter rhythmically across his jittering leg. He’s mimicking the fingerings of one of his pieces, no doubt. 

“Dream,” Professor Min says. Taps him on the shoulder lightly. “We’re heading out.” 

“See you on stage,” Techno says, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that makes Dream a little apprehensive. Phil is nowhere to be found—had exchanged a furtive glance with Techno, and then sped off to perform his conductor-ly duties.

Something is going on, but Dream can’t quite put his finger down on what. 

“See you on stage,” he replies instead of voicing these worries, and then follows Professor Min through the hallways and into the theater’s wings. 

“....are honored to host such a grand event,” someone is saying, from their podium just in front of the thick, blue curtains. Dream vaguely recognizes them as the Institute’s dean. They pause for a smatter of polite, bored applause, and then, with a little more gusto: “So without further ado, may I present—the Winter Festival opening ceremonies!”

There’s a swell of music—Rhapsody in Blue, from the pit —and the curtains part. The line of representative students and professors spills forward onto the stage, grouped by schools in a blurred clash of colors and varying levels of enthusiasm. 

They take their turns on the mic, blustering their way through school spirit speeches, and the audience takes their turns in shouting their support. It’s a performance, after all, and despite the rehearsal earlier in the day, it feels a charming sort of clumsy and uncoordinated. 

Dream doesn’t speak—he’d done it the previous year, and therefore felt compelled to let someone else have the spotlight. He holds one end of their prepared banner though, and at his cue, unfurls it with unmatched enthusiasm. 

“YOU KNOW WHO WE ARE,” their spokesperson roars, as Dream and some clarinetist lift the banner emblazoned with their school name higher in case people _don’t_ know. Someone sprinkles what seems like a metric ton of golden glitter over them, to raucous applause.

They’re the last in line. Dream casts a furtive glance behind him—Techno still hasn’t made an appearance. 

Just as the thought crosses his mind, the theater lights dim. From the pit orchestra: a low, anticipatory hum—Dream recognizes it as Tchaikovsky’s _Marche Slave_. 

The music creeps louder and louder—inches forward, notes short and grabbing, and then abruptly, _crashes_ into imperial and victorious. From the darkness, the spotlight flashes on and swings to the left wing, where the rest of them had emerged. 

A step, and then another. Phil walks onto the stage. Next to him, in a billowing red cape and a shining golden crown: Techno. He strides with a sureness that is only born of practice. Dream thinks, part enviously, part admiringly: he’s _good_.

A stream of people follow behind them, but the regal tilt of Techno’s chin reduces them extras. 

“Good evening,” Phil says into the microphone. His tone is mild, as if saying, _please don’t mind the celebrations_. “I’m glad everyone here could make it today. For those of you who don’t know us—what have you been _doing?_ ” 

A smatter of laughter. Phil hands the microphone to Techno. 

“Welcome,” Techno says. “I have two things to say. First, you can all be assured that we will _humiliate_ you. Our string orchestra performs tomorrow at 3PM, right here. Get there early so you can get good seats. Other program times and places are listed pretty much everywhere. Seriously. You can’t miss the posters.” 

A shout from the center section of the theater—it sounds distantly like, _FUCK YEAH TECHNOBLADE_. 

“Thank you, Wilbur,” Techno says. “The second thing is—the second thing is that we live in an _incredible_ time. Everything is just—it’s practically at our _fingertips_. The internet is a beautiful thing. Isn’t it, Phil?” 

Phil nods sagely. “Sure.” 

“So what I’m saying,” he continues fiercely, and the music crescendos into something triumphant and grand, “what I’m saying is— _SUBSCRIBE TO TECHNOBLADE!”_

&

In the hotel, after the ceremonies, Dream slides the glass door to their tiny balcony open and steps out into the frigid night. 

It’s nice. Quiet, for the most part; he can hear shouting from somewhere in the hotel, but it's faint and he’d be hard pressed to pinpoint where. Beyond the metal railing, the entire town stretches out between a skeleton of lights and movement. 

Behind him, the door slides open again. George pokes his head out sheepishly, like he’s not quite sure what he’s doing. Shivers at the cold, but steps out anyway, and Dream shifts wordlessly to accommodate him. The balcony is barely big enough for them to stand a hand’s width apart. 

Dream becomes acutely aware of it; the single beat it would take to touch him, to press his shoulder against his like a reassurance. His pulse, in his heart, in his wrists, metronomically counting the seconds. 

George breaks the silence first. “It’s cold,” he murmurs, a little thoughtfully, like he’s saying something else entirely. 

“Mm.” Dream can’t argue with that. 

They lapse into silence for a while. 

George says, to the open air: “If we stay out here too long, we’re going to get sick.” 

Dream turns to look at him. “Well,” he says, and it comes out softer than he means it to. He clears his throat. “Well,” he tries again, “we wouldn’t want that. Big day tomorrow.” 

It feels like a challenge, or maybe a question. George lets it hang in the air for a moment. Exhales, loose-limbed and tired. 

“Yeah,” he says, finally. “I—it wouldn’t be ideal.” 

It’s enough. George opens the door. They go in together. 

“I’ve got some cards,” Dream says, once they’re inside. He’s not sure why he says it. Maybe he has a chronic addiction to being near George, he thinks, wryly. “Go Fish?” 

George shrugs. “I’m down for some Go Fish.” 

They drag the table out from between the TV stand and the closet. George pulls the armchair—gray upholstery and springs that squeak every time someone so much as _breathes_ near it—to one side. Dream draws his cards from the box and shuffles them. 

He deals two even piles of sevens. Places the rest in the middle, and before he can pick his pile up: _BANG!_ A knock—or, more accurately, a _slam_ —on the door. 

“ _DREAM,_ ” Sapnap shouts, muffled, from the other side. There’s a quieter, slightly more muffled (but no less aggressive) yell, presumably from another hotel-goer— _shut the fuck up_ , maybe—and Sapnap, louder: “EAT SHIT, MOTHERFUCKER! DREAM, OPEN UP.” 

“Leave him out there,” George says, pleasantly, and Dream recognizes the dry humor bleeding through the edges of his words. “Do you have a four?” 

Well, let no one say he isn’t perfectly happy to play the part. Dream fans his cards out and sweeps a brief look over them. “Go Fish. He’s going to be arrested for—I don’t know. Being a menace. Two?” 

“He’s always a menace,” George says. Draws a card, and slips it into his hand “That’s his personal problem, I think. Go Fish.” 

_BANG. BANG. BANG_. The corner of Dream’s mouth tugs up in what might reasonably constitute as a smile. “His problem, huh? Our door might have issues with that.” 

“Oh alright,” George says ruefully. “If you must. King?” 

Dream tosses him his king of spades and then goes to open the door. 

“Hey,” he says, before Sapnap can ram the entire weight of his body behind it. “Why didn’t you knock?” 

“Why didn’t I—you are _so stupid_.” 

“He really is,” George agrees, as if he hadn’t been the one to suggest leaving Sapnap outside like—like some desperate _puppy_. “You wanna play Go Fish?” 

“I,” Sapnap says, “would _love_ to.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not mentioned in the chapter but Wilbur is the principal viola. Also, if it wasn't clear, Phil is the conductor (and subsequently, professor) and he's having a BONKERS good time fucking with people. 
> 
> Two big developments: first, M. made some gorgeous [art](https://twitter.com/margarinepie/status/1337932611969282048) for the fic! Check it out when you have the chance - she's a super super good artist. 
> 
> Second, I have a [tumblr](https://dandelioncow.tumblr.com) now! If you enjoy the fic, consider popping on by to say hello :)
> 
> Finally, thank you to everyone who's commented, bookmarked, and kudosed so far! You've been very kind.


End file.
